Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [39]
The older sons of Osama bin Laden were all adversely affected by our father’s fanaticism. As a child, Abdullah, the firstborn son, never sought friendships with other boys, preferring a solitary life. His greatest joy was riding a motorbike. When we were at the farm, Abdullah would leap on his motorbike and disappear for hours, his hair blowing in the breeze as he vanished into the desert.
My next brother, Abdul Rahman, born in 1978, was a solitary personality, often sitting on his own and staring without purpose. I remember when he was a young boy, he would go on a wild frenzy of activity, destroying household items or perhaps seeking tamer pursuits, such as playing with pieces of paper for hours on end.
Whatever was the problem, I believe that Abdul Rahman was unable to draw the usual boundaries between himself and others. For example, even though he was enthralled with animals, particularly horses, there were times in his childhood when his personality would alter and he would become cruel to the very animals he professed to love. This trait first manifested itself when Abdul Rahman was very young.
My father had also noticed trouble during Abdul Rahman’s younger years and once shared a disturbing incident with me: “Omar, I remember visiting my mother when your brother was a toddler. Mother’s pet cat walked into the room. Abdul Rahman rushed to grab the cat. He held her hard between his hands. I did not know what he was thinking to do, and then to our surprise, Abdul Rahman bit the cat. Before we could pull the cat from Abdul Rahman, the poor cat clawed your brother and scampered away. We believed it to be a passing incident, but later in the evening I caught Abdul Rahman stalking the cat. Moving quickly, he got her in his grip once again, biting the cat yet again until it shrieked in pain.”
My father shook his head in sorrow, saying nothing more.
Sa’ad, the third son, was Abdul Rahman’s opposite. Sa’ad was a natural comedian and enjoyed talking more than any human being I have ever known. He chatted expansively about the most inane topics, anything that popped into his head, whether it was about the newest baby goat, or the latest trick performed by one of his younger siblings, or perhaps it might be the consistency of the yogurt he had eaten at breakfast. Sa’ad frequently appeared out of control with his endless chatter, sometimes confiding intimate personal information that no one wanted to hear.
Such boundless liveliness brought Sa’ad constant trouble, for of all the children, he was the one who continually failed to abide by our father’s strict rules of conduct. Sa’ad’s limbs moved as fast as his tongue. My brother never walked anywhere. He ran endlessly—until one day he ran straight into the path of a car.
This happened when our father was in Afghanistan and we were in Jeddah. Our Yemeni driver, who had been left in charge, had walked with us to the neighborhood mosque. As always, Sa’ad was running far ahead of everyone. He was in such a rush that he foolishly failed to look before he crossed the road. There was a sickening thump as Sa’ad collided with a moving car.
We ran to the accident. Everyone at the scene was agitated, but no one more than the driver of the car, who was employed as an engineer for the family firm and had been driving a company car. When that poor man understood that he had struck a son of Osama bin Laden, he became overwrought, as did our driver, who was responsible to our father for the safety of his sons. I’m sure that both men were already envisioning the loss of good jobs, or perhaps long jail sentences, for drivers involved in car accidents with injured parties can be held in prison while waiting for a ruling.
My brothers and I circled Sa’ad’s prostrate body. Not even the accident had silenced